IN FRANCE THIS FLOWERS IS FOR THE DEAD
THIS is my body, this unhappy thing.
It is lately experiencing bad sleep.
It has nothing to look at but the moon. The moon:
Whose phases—are degrees of shame.
Ghalib says Hell is for polytheists.
To my mind, that’s gotta be a mistake:—
For Paradise can hardly be populated
By these high-fiving high school athletes.
So, listen, you five (you two over there,
And you two, and this guy up front):
You are my people and so I advise you.
I call my lecture Nil Admirare;—
For easily impressed is easily fooled, and easily fooled is often.
I would have my coffin carved from a tree in which no songbird ever perched.
And now I read, for the millionth time,
The little death poem I have prepared.
Let it be remembered as my soul is escaping.
It says: Here goes the baby with the bathwater!
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